


In the Blood

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual John, First Kiss, First Time, Friendship/Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's noticed there's something out of place about Sherlock's suicide, and it all comes down to the blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Long, long, loooong overdue fic (so fucking overdue it's not even funny) for [Veron](http://thoughtsareking.tumblr.com/) for winning my fic giveaway fucking forever ago.
> 
> They wanted John figuring things out and confronting Mycroft and also life-threatening danger. And smutt and fluff. Hope this delivers.
> 
> I am so fucking sorry this took me forever to get to. I hope you like it, Veron.

The epiphany did not come to John in the days following the events at Bart’s. Nor did they come in the ensuing weeks or months. The one-year anniversary of Sherlock’s jump came and went, as did John’s third visit to the grave: the first had been the funeral, the second with Mrs. Hudson after John had moved out of Baker Street, and the third three-hundred and sixty-five days after the event itself.

Revelation did not occur in the middle of office hours, with John rushing gallantly out on patients and co-workers at the surgery where he had found work the summer after Bart’s. It did not come in his nightmares, though of those there were plenty. The only notable detail about the day when John’s brain decided to click completely on for the first time in over a year was that the news called it the hottest day London had seen in some number of decades, or maybe just that summer.

John was cooking supper with the television playing in the other room. He couldn’t pinpoint any connection between what was being said and the switch that flipped in his head. Maybe there wasn’t one; maybe it was a matter of time. Some anonymous element had decided he had to wait a certain length of time, some millions of seconds—Sherlock would know exactly how many between the moment he leapt and the moment the flip switched.

He put down the knife and switched off the stove. Leaving everything else where it was, he grabbed his jacket and headed out the door of the flat he could not quite call home, even after a year of living there. The TV was still playing.

John didn’t even consider calling ahead to see if Greg was still at the Met at that hour, but it turned out he was. Greg was surprised and concerned to see John in his doorway at half seven. “Heya, John. Everything alright?”

“I need to see the file.”

“What file?”

“His file.”

Greg sat back in his chair and gave John a solid once-over. “It’s not worth it, John.”

“What’s not worth it?”

“Putting yourself through this.”

“I’m not putting myself through anything. Something’s _wrong_ , Greg.”

“Look, none of us wants him to be gone, but it’s been fifteen months.”

“Let me see the file.”

Greg sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t,” he muttered to himself. He got out of his chair and walked up to John. He put his hand momentarily on the other man’s shoulder and said, “Wait here.”

John waited. He even sat. There was an eerie calm covering the synapses firing off under the thin surface.

When Greg returned, he closed the door to his office before handing John the file and leaning against his desk, arms crossed. “What do you expect to find?”

John ignored the question for the moment. He flipped right to the photographs. Of course, there were none of the body. They had moved it almost immediately. That was wrong, too. It had never sat right with John. This was something else, though, something new. “The blood.”

“Huh?”

“There’s not much.”

“No, there wasn’t.”

“There should have been. There should have been a lot more blood. It’s Andrew West all over again.”

“Who?”

John looked up from the file. “The- Oh, I never blogged about that one. Mycroft asked our help on a case, ages ago. It was during the first round with Moriarty, the one that ended up in the pool with me strapped to the nines with Semtex.”

“Remember that bit.”

“There was an MI6 guy found dead on train tracks, and Mycroft asked us to look into it. The big clue that led us to figuring out the case was the lack of blood on the tracks. They hadn’t cleaned at all, and one of the workers confirmed there hadn’t been much to start with despite the man’s head being smashed in. Ergo, he was dead long before he head was run over.”

Greg shook his head. “What’s that got to do with Sherlock’s suicide?”

“Look at these photos, Greg.” John picked up one of where Sherlock’s head had lain and offered it forcefully to the DI. “Not a heck of a lot of blood for a five-story drop.”

Greg stared for a minute. “No, I’m lost. You’re saying he was dead before he jumped?”

“I’m saying the body that hit the ground was.”

“John,” Greg sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s late. Maybe you should get some sleep, think about this in the morning.”

John closed the file and tossed it on Greg’s desk. “You think I’ve lost it.”

“I think you’re tired, in more ways than one. Go home, John.”

He didn’t bother snapping at the DI, though he certainly wanted to. The last thing he said before leaving was, “Just look at the blood, Greg.”

 

A few days later, John had a visitor. It wasn’t one he expected.

“Anderson.”

“John. And it’s Philip; I’m off the clock.”

“What do you want?”

“To help you.”

Sceptical was an understatement for the look John gave him. He almost laughed outright.

“Greg gave some of us a heads up that you had stopped by and might be digging into Sherlock’s case file.”

“Of course he did.”

“He’s looking out for you, that’s all.”

“And I suppose you’re just checking up on me on his behalf?” John started closing the door.

Anderson caught the door with his hand, wedging his foot inside the doorframe. “No, I think you’re right.”

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing, mostly because of who he was hearing it from. “You what?”

“You’re right, about the blood at least. There was never an investigation because there was no suspicion of foul play. Everyone assumed it was cut-and-dry, case closed. But I looked at the file and you’re completely, absolutely right.” He held up a large envelope John had failed to notice.

Hesitantly, John opened the door and welcomed Anderson in. They sat at the kitchen table, where Anderson emptied the envelope and spread out various pieces of paper, most of them scraps.

“I’ve seen jumper aftermath. Now, not all of them have a lot of blood, but that’s not what struck me as odd about Sherlock’s case.” He sifted through the pages before bringing a digital sketch to the surface. “Typical HVIS pattern for a jumper. High velocity-”

“Impact splatter, yeah. Keep going.”

“It’ll change from case to case depending on angle of impact of the head, distance, so on.” He flipped the paper over and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. After a few speedy strokes, he turned the paper toward John. “That’s what Sherlock’s looked like, roughly. I’d have copied the photo if I thought I could get away with it.”

John stared at the black marks and flipped it back and forth. “That’s…”

“Nothing even close. It looks like someone took a bag of blood and squirted it around Sherlock’s head. It doesn’t match any proper HVIS pattern.”

“Do you know what this is?” John looked up at the forensic scientist, heart racing.

“Sherlock did not die from a high velocity impact.”

“It means Sherlock didn’t _die_.”

Anderson’s expression fell. “John, I don’t know what’s going on here, but that’s a stretch. You saw his body, didn’t you?”

“I saw a body. I was in shock, for christ’s sake. All I know is, he was alive before he supposedly jumped, which means he couldn’t have been the body that hit the pavement.”

Anderson chewed at his lip for a moment before offering, none too pleased with himself, “Could it have been a recording?”

“No, of course it wasn’t-” John caught himself. “I don’t think so. No, it was too real. He talked to me. It was definitely him talking to me.” John put his head between his hands and stared down at the array of papers, at the fake blood splatter.

A tentative hand was on his shoulder.

John sat up and the hand slipped away. “Thanks, for this.”

“I’m not sure what it does, except lead to a conspiracy theory.”

“Yeah, but I know just who to talk to about conspiracies.” John picked up the splatter patterns and slowly turned them over and over in his fingers.

 

John stood in the threshold of the Diogenes Club until Mycroft looked up from his paper. Mycroft folded the paper under his arm and took his leave of the silence. John followed him to the back office where had once before confronted Mycroft, over a year ago.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mycroft dropped his paper on the end table, pressing his fingertips on it and keeping his back to John.

“Where is he?”

“Where is who?”

“Sherlock. Your brother, my best friend. He’s not dead, so where is he?”

Mycroft sighed and sat in his chair.

John remained standing, hands clenched at his side. 

“A little late in the game for denial, John.”

“I know, Mycroft. I know he’s not dead.”

Mycroft folded his hands under his chin and leant forward. “This is a dark road you’re heading down, John Watson. Turn around before it’s too late.”

John scowled and turned on the ball of his foot.

“Sherlock Holmes is dead, John,” Mycroft called after him.

 

John was standing over Sherlock’s grave when Molly found him. She stepped quietly up to his side and stared down at the headstone with him.

“How illegal is it to dig up a grave?”

“Pretty illegal I would think. I could ask Greg the exact sentence if you’d like.”

John turned with a smile and gave her a hug. “He sent you after me, huh?”

“No, but he did mention your visit the other day. John, I did the autopsy myself.”

John shrugged. “You could be in on it.” He looked back at the grave.

“Really, you think I could be part of some—conspiracy—covering up a death like that?”

“You’ve pulled strings for Sherlock in the past.”

“John.”

“The picture’s all wrong, Molly. Don’t tell me it’s not.”

“Suicide is always wrong, all the more when it’s someone you know and care about.”

“Anderson thinks I’m right.”

Molly sighed, “And he’s got no reason to want to believe Sherlock’s not dead? After what he and Sally did? I know they didn’t mean it to turn as ugly as it did, which is why-”

“Stop.” John shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “Please, stop.”

Molly put a hand on his arm.

John tilted his head back and exhaled into the branches shadowing them. “Maybe Mycroft’s right. Maybe this is just delayed denial.”

“I know you don’t like it when he’s right.”

“But he is, a lot.” John shook his head. “I’m sorry you came out here.”

“You don’t need to be alone.”

John gave her another hug. He didn’t tell her that he’d been alone since the moment he searched for Sherlock’s pulse in front of the hospital.

 

It continued to gnaw at John, burrowing its way under his skin until it was all he could think about it. The longer it went on, the more convinced he grew that Sherlock was alive, somewhere. He met with Anderson twice more over the next few weeks. They discussed other discrepancies in Sherlock’s supposed suicide, but it always came back round to the first and most prominent fault: the blood.

John began researching: how to fake a suicide, how to survive a five-story fall. He created a false identity on The Science of Deduction and started a thread in the forums laying out everything he and Anderson had come up with that pointed toward Sherlock’s death being faked. The first few replies were curt and rude.

_don’t glorify that psycho_

_if tru 1 more reason to not trust the crazy fucker_

_who the fuk r u? some noob tryin to get attention? fuk off_

On the third day, though, the thread exploded. People began arguing every angle, but also each other. There was as much support as opposition. People sent John links to theories that could answer his questions. Some were absurd, but other held promise. His heart skipped a beat when someone told him about an old magic trick that used a rubber ball to mask one’s pulse. When John had finally tracked Sherlock down to Bart’s after Kitty Riley’s, hadn’t Sherlock been bouncing a rubber ball off the side of a desk while he scoured his mind palace? It seemed to fit too perfectly, and John was almost afraid to hope.

Almost.

He came home from work one day and found a note taped to his door. He didn’t recognise the hand it was scribbled in.

_Stop looking for a corpse. ___

__John crumpled it in his fist and chucked it in the bin._ _

__A few days later, he received an email from an unfamiliar address. He assumed it was someone new from the message boards, not realising then and there that they had sent it to his personal email and not the one he’d created for his forum account. He was so used to receiving such emails, he didn’t look all that close at which inbox he was in when he opened it._ _

___Do you believe the dead man walks?_ _ _

__He replied without thinking much of it, _Yes.__ _

__By the time he finished going through the rest of his emails and skimming the latest responses on the forum, he had another email from the same person._ _

___Would you stake your life on it?_ _ _

__Mildly annoyed at the arrogant tone, he sent the same one-word reply. His inbox refreshed, and he already had a new email._ _

___Goodbye, Dr. Watson._ _ _

__In the same moment John realised what email his correspondent had been using, something crashed through his window. Instinct that had been rooted in him years ago flared up anew before he could consciously assess the situation. He flipped his table onto its side and ducked behind it not a second before the grenade went off._ _

__

__It was all a blur of sensory overload at first, and it was a while before John could separate sight front sound from smell from pain. Lights, sirens, burning everything. Everything was a vibrant version of its natural colour. He noted the plastic mask over his mouth and nose. Oxygen, of course._ _

__Then the pain took precedence and he shouted. Hands pushed him back into the stiff surface of an ambulance gurney. Someone called for sedation. Clarity slipped away._ _

__

__He knew the feel of anaesthesia wearing off as well as he knew the morphine dripping into his veins. It had been some years since Afghanistan, but he remembered too well._ _

__Someone called his name. No, not him. They called another doctor. His vitals were ticked off._ _

__“Can you hear me?”_ _

__John nodded in spite of the throbbing in his head that started at the base of his skull._ _

__“Do you know your name?”_ _

__“Watson, John. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” John’s head buzzed as consciousness groped inside him for better footing. “Formerly.”_ _

__“Good. For a moment there, I thought you’d gone back in time. Do you remember what happened, John?”_ _

__“Grenade. How bad?”_ _

__“Cracked ribs, concussion. You’re lucky, or I should say smart according to the paramedics. The table trick kept you alive, but you look a bit like Frankenstein right now. There were numerous splinters, large and small, we had to remove. A lot required stitches. Nothing major severed.”_ _

__“His creature.”_ _

__“Pardon?”_ _

__“Frankenstein was the scientist.”_ _

__The doctor chuckled. “Well, I see you’ll be feeling just fine in no time. Get some rest, John.”_ _

__Rest was the last thing John wanted as the anaesthesia continued to wear off. A little while later, he called for a nurse to ask if he could have his morphine replaced with an NSAID. Neither nurse nor John’s doctor were keen, but they obliged his request. It didn’t take long for the pain to sharpen, but John had suffered through worse. He needed to think._ _

__It wasn’t long before visitors began pouring in. Molly was first. She told him Greg had half the Met out looking for the assailant._ _

__Mrs. Hudson wasn’t far behind, followed by Mike, and then the DI himself. He repeated Molly’s message and spent most of his visit pacing John’s room. It took John a couple minutes to get his full attention so he could tell him about the emails. After that, Greg rushed off with a hurried apology._ _

__John dozed off for a while after that. When he woke up, someone was in the room with him. It was dark out by then, and only a lamp beside his hospital bed lit the room—and Mycroft’s face._ _

__“I told you, John. I told you this was a dangerous road to walk down.”_ _

__John raised his hospital bed so he could sit up. “So he is alive.”_ _

__Mycroft only sighed._ _

__John’s heart leapt. “Where is he? Why? Why did he fake his death? Why couldn’t he tell me?”_ _

__Mycroft fixed him with a cold stare. “Don’t you think you’ve jeopardised quite enough as it is?”_ _

__“Oh, yeah, I’m fine by the way. Thanks for asking.”_ _

__“I’m not talking about your life, John Watson!” Mycroft snapped._ _

__“So what are you talking about?”_ _

__“Enough.” Mycroft stood up and buttoned his jacket._ _

__“Mycroft, where is Sherlock?”_ _

__Mycroft looked at his watch. “Over the English Channel, if his flight is on time.” He picked up his umbrella from where it hung on the foot of John’s hospital bed and walked out._ _

__

__Not two hours after Mycroft’s visit, the door to John’s hospital room flung open. Fluorescent light poured in, outlining a very familiar silhouette. Whatever John told himself he was going to say, it all went out of his head._ _

__Sherlock flipped on the lights in John’s room and slammed the door shut. “There are not adequate words in any language with which I am familiar to describe how incredibly stupid you are, John Watson.”_ _

__John laughed. He didn’t think he’d laughed in over fifteen months, not properly. Not in a way that cleared his head and spirit. He only laughed harder when Sherlock scowled._ _

__Sherlock pulled off his coat—it looked so much like his old Belfast, the one he wore on top of Bart’s, that John wondered if it wasn’t the exact same one—and draped it over the foot of John’s bed._ _

__The weight of it on his feet left John soundless, breathless, and still grinning._ _

__Sherlock dropped into the chair at John’s bedside and leant back in it, propping his elbows on the arms and locking his fingers over his chest. He stared John down._ _

__“You look alright for a dead guy,” John finally managed to say._ _

__Sherlock didn’t look that great at all, actually. He hid it beneath his clothes, but there was a stiffness in his body that spoke of pain, physical pain. He carried himself harder than he used to, despite his attempts at saving face in front of John._ _

__John sobered up and his smile quickly vanished. “Sherlock.” He paused, savouring the name on his tongue, the fact that he spoke it to the man himself. “Why? Whatever the reason for faking your death, why couldn’t you tell me?”_ _

__Sherlock gestured up and down the length of John’s body. “You’re exhibiting the very reason.”_ _

__John frowned. “What?”_ _

__“You,” Sherlock sighed. “Moriarty had planted snipers on three individuals: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you. I had to kill myself and keep the world believing I was fake, or else you three would be killed.”_ _

__“But Moriarty-”_ _

__“Regardless of Moriarty’s own status.”_ _

__“I could have faked it.”_ _

__Sherlock snorted. “John Watson, you are an abhorrent actor.”_ _

__John chewed at the inside of his cheek for a moment. “So, the person who tried to kill me was this sniper?”_ _

__“Clearly couldn’t make a clean shot from his blind, so he had to resort to the grenade. Unfortunate for him.”_ _

__“Fortunate for me.”_ _

__“That remains to be seen.”_ _

__“Sherlock?”_ _

__“Hm?”_ _

__“I’m glad you’re not dead.”_ _

__Sherlock huffed and closed his eyes, sinking lower into his chair and propping his feet on the edge of John’s bed. “I can’t sleep on planes.”_ _

__“Since when do you sleep?”_ _

__“Oh, very funny. I see your wit remains intact.”_ _

__“Sherlock.”_ _

__Sherlock opened one eye._ _

__“It’s good to see you again.”_ _

__Sherlock huffed and closed his eye._ _

__

__Sherlock was at the forefront of the manhunt for John’s attacker, and John was right there next to him. As soon as they discharged him, John went to Baker Street. If there had been dust, Mrs. Hudson had done away with it in the couple days John was in the hospital. Sherlock had a map pinned to the wall above the sofa with various photos and notes attached. He had not one but two laptops open on the desk. When John showed up, the detective was in one of his old dressing gowns and flipping through files marked CLASSIFIED. It seemed like the last fifteen months hadn’t happened._ _

__Only they had._ _

__John rapped his knuckles on the open door._ _

__Sherlock looked up with the vaguely disorientated expression he always had went interrupted in the middle of a case. “Why are you standing there?”_ _

__“I don’t live here anymore. Thought I’d be polite.”_ _

__“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock looked back at the file in his hand._ _

__John smirked and walked inside. “Any progress?”_ _

__“None of Moran’s known contacts have moved, nor have any of his contact’s contacts.”_ _

__“So, no.” John sat at the desk and pulled over one of the abandoned files to flip through. “This guy’s got one hell of a record.”_ _

__Sherlock glanced briefly at the file John had picked up. “That’s his military record.”_ _

__“I can see that.”_ _

__Sherlock handed John the file he had been shuffling through. “This is his record after becoming an assassin-for-hire.”_ _

__“Hefty. How long was he working for Moriarty?”_ _

__“At least as long as we had been targets.”_ _

__“You.” John set the file down. “I was never much of a target.”_ _

__“Your numerous stitches beg to differ.”_ _

__“It all comes back to you, though, doesn’t it? I’m an extraneous element.”_ _

__Sherlock gave him a peculiar look, one John couldn’t quite read in the moment. “Do you really see yourself that way?”_ _

__“No, but that’s how your enemies see me.” John gestured to Moran’s files. “So, he’s got contacts MI6 doesn’t know about.”_ _

__Sherlock’s phone chimed. “Hah!”_ _

__“A lead?”_ _

__“Mycroft’s been cheating.”_ _

__“Come again?”_ _

__“On his diet.”_ _

__“Sherlock-”_ _

__Sherlock thrust the mobile in John’s face. It was a photo of a slice of half-eaten carrot cake._ _

__“Mycroft texted you this?”_ _

__“Ignore the cake, John.”_ _

__John shook his head, but he looked at the rest of the photo. It was angled just so as to capture the occupants of the nearby tables._ _

__“Left.”_ _

__“I see. Who is she?”_ _

__“A known contact.” Sherlock snatched his phone back and started texting rapidly. “Too peripheral on Moriarty’s web, so we left her alone for the time being. However, she is a fan of Moran’s work. If she caught wind he was back this side of Europe, well, why else would she make the trip to London when Barcelona is so much nicer this time of year?” Sherlock leapt to his feet. “Come along, John.”_ _

__“Let me guess: ‘the game is on’?”_ _

__Sherlock stopped in the doorway and smirked back at John. “The game never stopped.”_ _

__

__Somehow, they ended up at Angelo’s rather than on the chase. Sherlock dismissed John’s questions by saying John needed to eat and he needed to think. John didn’t argue, mostly because it still felt surreal that Sherlock was back, and there they were, like their first night._ _

__When John finished eating, Sherlock put down his mobile, which he had been twirling in his hand, and looked across the table straight at John. “I do apologise for the suffering I caused you, John.”_ _

__John blinked. He hadn’t expected an apology. He wasn’t even angry thinking he’d never get one. They were rare from Sherlock, and it was already enough that the man was alive. “You’re here now.”_ _

__“I am.”_ _

__“And after Moran’s caught?”_ _

__Sherlock looked at John questioningly._ _

__“Are you going off again, to finish taking down Moriarty’s web?”_ _

__“Perhaps. I’d rather not, though. I quite missed London. No city matches it.”_ _

__“How many cities have you been to?”_ _

__“In the last fifteen months?”_ _

__John nodded._ _

__“Twenty-six major metropolitan areas, twenty-seven if you separate Rome and the Vatican City.”_ _

__John grinned._ _

__“What?”_ _

__“I missed you too.”_ _

__Sherlock rolled his eyes and decided that was the opportune moment to depart the restaurant._ _

__They spent a couple hours travelling about the city, mostly between the posh corners. “Sightseeing?” John mused at one point._ _

__“No.”_ _

__“Then what are we doing?”_ _

__“If you must know, I’m using you as bait.”_ _

__John stopped in his tracks. “Come again?”_ _

__“I am endeavouring to flush Moran out. If he is in contact with-”_ _

__“Bait?”_ _

__“You’re perfectly safe.”_ _

__“You’re using me as bait for a top class sniper assassin, and you think I’m perfectly safe?”_ _

__Sherlock nodded._ _

__“You- you-” John blinked. “You’re fucking with me.”_ _

__Again, Sherlock nodded._ _

__“You arse.”_ _

__“Now, that isn’t to say you aren’t in danger, but-”_ _

__John punched Sherlock’s arm, though not particularly hard._ _

__“However, we are not sightseeing. We’re waiting.”_ _

__“For?”_ _

__As if on cue, Sherlock’s phone chimed. “Ah, here we are. Perfect. Come along, John!”_ _

__John shook his head and followed._ _

__They were waiting outside a rather large house when a private car pulled up and a woman got out. She was the same woman from Mycroft’s photo. Upon seeing two figures on her front stoop, she froze._ _

__“Who are you?”_ _

__“Buenas noches, Señora Guerrero.”_ _

__The woman relaxed. “So you are live, Mister Holmes.”_ _

__Sherlock put on his most charming smile and offered his hand._ _

__Guerrero took it and dismissed her driver with a wave. “Your brother was spying on me at supper, you know?”_ _

__“Was he now?”_ _

__“Very rude of him.”_ _

__“I shall have a word with him.”_ _

__Guerrero let them into the house and led them to a parlour. “You will have to excuse my little hospitality. I am only here a short while.”_ _

__“So I have heard.”_ _

__Guerrero smirked. “Naughty, Sherlock. Minding everyone else’s business, as usual?”_ _

__“It’s what I do.”_ _

__“And you must be the doctor. Watson, si?”_ _

__John nodded. He hadn’t a clue what was going on, specifically why they were chatting with Moran’s contact._ _

__“Do you know, I had a visitor today. He asked many questions about you, Sherlock.”_ _

__“Did he now?”_ _

__“I told him I have not been in London for a time, and I did not know what you were up to. Imagine my surprise when he told me you were supposed to be dead.”_ _

__“Quite a shock, I’m sure. And what was your visitor’s name?”_ _

__“Don’t you know? No? I will introduce you then. Come in, Colonel.” Guerrero called out._ _

__John was on his feet the next second, facing the man who had stepped into the parlour with them. John had seen his face enough in photos to know it was Moran, and the ex-soldier had a pistol pointed straight at Sherlock._ _

__“Pleasure to meet you, Moran,” Sherlock said. He remained seating, completely unfazed._ _

__“You killed my boss.”_ _

__Sherlock folded his hands in his lap. “Actually, he killed himself. Put a bullet in his mouth. Trust me, I was there.”_ _

__Moran swung the gun from Sherlock to John. “I see you managed to survive.”_ _

__“Not good for your reputation, is it?” John sneered._ _

__“Don’t be a fool, Moran,” Sherlock said. “John’s nothing to you.”_ _

__“He’s a job.”_ _

__“I think we’ve gotten a little more personal than that, you and I.” Sherlock stood and stepped forward until he was past John. “After all, I’ve significantly shrunk your clientele pool.”_ _

__“Jim’s clientele.”_ _

__“And with Moriarty gone, that makes them your clientele. Really, who else is going to hire a no-name assassin without references? You were only as in demand as Moriarty. Few of them even knew who you were. They hired Moriarty, after all; you were just another tool in his box.”_ _

__The gun was certainly aimed back at Sherlock now._ _

__“Really hope you know what you’re doing,” John muttered._ _

__“Let’s be honest, Sebastian. The only reason you went after John was to feel useful again, to feel like you still had a purpose to fulfil. Never mind that your boss was dead, that there was no paycheck at the end of the tunnel. Truth is, though, your time’s up. No one’s going to want you but the lowest, cheapest scum of the underworld. It doesn’t matter how good you are. Moriarty’s name is cursed, and no one wants to so much as touch one of his used up tools, let alone use it for themselves. Your last target was the only thing that kept you going, but, once he’s gone, and once I’m gone, you’re finished. Really, Colonel, did you even try to kill John?”_ _

__Moran had had enough of Sherlock’s mockery. He pulled the trigger, and Sherlock was knocked back into an end table. John lunged for Moran. He’d barely gotten two swings in before he was being dragged away. There was a lot of shouting he hadn’t noticed. Somehow, at some point, Greg had showed up with an entire team, and they quickly had Moran in cuffs._ _

__John turned to Sherlock, who lay crumpled on the ground. “No. No no no. You did this once. God damn it, Sherlock, don’t do this again. Don’t die again. Don’t leave me again.”_ _

__To his shock, Sherlock coughed and slowly heaved himself up on his arms._ _

__John looked down at his chest and ripped open his already ruined shirt to reveal a bulletproof vest._ _

__“Really, John,” Sherlock said hoarsely. “In public?”_ _

__“You—bloody—you-” John took hold of Sherlock’s face and kissed him hard. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s and breathed, “You idiot.”_ _

__Somewhere behind them, Greg cleared his throat. “Alright, Sherlock?”_ _

__“Quite.” Sherlock moved to get up, and he accepted John’s help in doing so. “The Met actually does have something that works perfectly.”_ _

__“Oh, it’s so good to have you back,” Greg muttered. “Alright, now hand it over.”_ _

__“Can’t I keep it for a memento?”_ _

__“No. You do enough stupid shit. God knows what you’d get into if you could wear one of those all the time.”_ _

__Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh before removing the vest and passing it over to the DI._ _

__“You want to get that checked out?” Greg nodded to the bruise forming on Sherlock’s chest._ _

__Sherlock shrugged his shirt back on. “I have a doctor.”_ _

__“Fine,” Greg sighed. “Now, unless you’re actually going to do paperwork in a timely fashion, off my crime scene.”_ _

__“Of course.” Sherlock turned around to Guerrero, who had remained perfectly collected in her chair throughout the whole ordeal. “Your cooperation has been most appreciated, Señora.”_ _

__“I believe this evens our score.”_ _

__Sherlock smirked and bowed his head. “Coming, John?”_ _

__John fell in step beside Sherlock before they even reached the curb._ _

__

__The silence in the cab ride back to Baker Street—back home—grew steadily more uncomfortable. John stopped by Mrs. Hudson’s to borrow an icepack before following Sherlock up. By the time he reached the flat, Sherlock already lay on the sofa, shirt discarded on the floor and shoes kicked off. John placed the icepack on his chest._ _

__Sherlock hissed and glared down at the offending object. “Is this really necessary?”_ _

__“Doctor’s orders.” He headed to the kitchen. “Any chance you’ve bought tea since you’ve been back?”_ _

__“Mrs. Hudson did I believe.”_ _

__John stood over the sink while the kettle boiled. He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder._ _

__“I believe this is one situation where a talk would be beneficial.”_ _

__John shrugged off the hand and shook his head. “I’m sorry about that.”_ _

__“John-”_ _

__“Look, let’s pretend it didn’t happen. You’re married to your work, I get that. I respect that. I don’t want things to change. I want to go back to before I thought you were dead. You and me, solving cases, best mates.”_ _

__“If that’s what you wish. However, I still remain somewhat confused.”_ _

__“About what?”_ _

__“In the past, you were always quite adamant in denying people’s accusations that you’re gay, and I have never observed you acting in any way that would contradict this.”_ _

__John smiled. “You know, there’s more than two sexualities in the world.”_ _

__“Well, yes, but you’ve never courted another man.”_ _

__The kettle clicked off and John went to fix their tea. “There’s two reasons for that. One, I definitely have a preference—I guess you could call it—for women. I don’t know. It’s not that I can’t see men as aesthetically pleasing, but I usually have to interact with them to some extent before any real attraction can take place.” John passed Sherlock his cup._ _

__“And the second reason?”_ _

__“You.” John leant back on the counter with is mug between his hands. “I had a hard time looking at other blokes that way when you were right here, and I couldn’t be with you.”_ _

__“I see.” Sherlock looked down into his tea._ _

__“Please, I don’t want you to feel bad or like I expect anything. I don’t. Earlier—I was relieved. It was adrenaline and relief and I acted without thinking.”_ _

__“But you do… find me attractive?”_ _

__John snorted. “A blind man would find you attractive. Acerbic personality aside, you’re bloody gorgeous.”_ _

__“If we’re going on visual aesthetic, your metaphor-”_ _

__“Shut up.”_ _

__Sherlock snapped his mouth shut._ _

__“Point is, yes, I find you attractive. That’s not why I kissed you, though.” John took a deep breath. “Truth is, Sherlock, I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. But I know you don’t want something like that, so I didn’t pursue. That’s why I’m defensive when people start talking about us being a couple—I don’t want you dealing with that kind of distraction.”_ _

__“So you let people badger you?”_ _

__John shrugged. “I put on a show, Sherlock. I really don’t give a damn what people think about me.”_ _

__“But you care what they think about me.”_ _

__“Yeah, I do.”_ _

__“Because you love me?” It was amusing to watch the cogs turn in Sherlock’s head at such a relatively slow pace._ _

__“Yes. But it’s not about romantic love. I’m not going to ask anything from you but your friendship. I’m happy with your friendship. That’s enough for me, more than enough.”_ _

__Sherlock nodded. “Are you going to move back in?”_ _

__“If you want me to.”_ _

__“John, you should know, about the last fifteen months-”_ _

__“You don’t have to talk about if you don’t want to. You don’t have to explain it any more than you already have.”_ _

__Sherlock stiffened. “While I appreciate the gesture, there is something I wish to say on the matter.”_ _

__John apologised and smiled around the edge of his mug._ _

__“As you know and have recently stated, I do consider myself married to my work. However, during the past fifteen months, I have found that work lacking. Not in quantity or quality, mind you—Mycroft saw to that—but in company. ”_ _

__John beamed. He couldn’t help it. “Thank you, Sherlock. That means a lot.”_ _

__Sherlock huffed and put his mug on the counter. He took John’s from his hands and set it down as well. “And yet you seem to be completely missing my meaning.”_ _

__John looked curiously up at Sherlock. “What’s your meaning?”_ _

__“Simply because I prefer to disregard emotional and romantic attachments in my life does not mean they never occur.” Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders. “To phrase it in a more romanticised fashion you are more likely to comprehend: I might as well have been dead the last fifteen months for all the emptiness I felt. I am not whole without you, John.”_ _

__“Sherlock…”_ _

__“You are part of my work. You are an undeniable part of my life.”_ _

__John rested his hand against Sherlock’s cheek._ _

__Sherlock leant down and returned John’s earlier kiss._ _

__John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled himself up against Sherlock’s lips._ _

__“How long have you wanted to do that?” Sherlock murmured._ _

__“Too bloody long. You?”_ _

__“I’m afraid I had to experience the loss to recognise the extent of my feelings for you.”_ _

__“Better late than never.”_ _

__“John, you understand it’s been quite a long time since I’ve found myself in an intimate relationship?”_ _

__John nodded and let some slack into his hold around Sherlock’s neck. “It’s fine. We can take it slow.”_ _

__“On the contrary, I was wondering how fast would be acceptable.”_ _

__John burst out laughing and leant his head under Sherlock’s chin. When he pulled back, he found a slightly put out Sherlock pouting down at him. “How fast do you want to go?”_ _

__“As fast as the present lack of condom and lubricant would allow, as I currently have neither of those.”_ _

__John flushed and grinned. “Well then.”_ _

__“However, I am amicable to going slower, if you so desire.”_ _

__“Oh no, I’m fine going fast. Surprised is all.”_ _

__“Then… bedroom?”_ _

__John took Sherlock’s hand and led the way._ _

__Sherlock asked to undress John. He did so with meticulous care—not to John’s clothes, which he tossed as soon as they were completely off—but to John himself. He seemed to study every centimetre of John’s skin as he exposed it. He only passed over the bandages that covered the worst of his stitches._ _

__John took the time to trace Sherlock’s exposed torso with his own eyes and fingertips. He circled around the blossomed bruise, followed the curves of knotted muscles. Before either of them lost their trousers, they kissed again, this time with parted lips and curious tongues._ _

__On the bed, completely bare—with the exception of John’s bandages—they lay on their sides face-to-face. They ran their hands up and down the surfaces of each other’s bodies, searching and tentative, until John finally lowered his hand to Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock breathed in sharply at the touch._ _

__“How long has it been,” John whispered, “since someone touched you?”_ _

__“Nearly a decade.”_ _

__“And have you touched yourself in that decade?”_ _

__“On occasion, when necessary.”_ _

__John smirked. “Let me guess: sex is a distraction.”_ _

__“One I have not cared to indulge in for some time.”_ _

__“But you don’t mind indulging now?”_ _

__Sherlock brushed the back of his fingers over John’s cheek. “I don’t mind indulging with you.”_ _

__John kissed him lightly. “Sherlock.”_ _

__“Hm?”_ _

__“Touch me.”_ _

__Sherlock gave a little nod. He lowered his hand and took John in his long fingers. It was hard to tell the man was out of practice. Each stroke left John with significantly less air in his lungs. Soon they were both hard and wanting more._ _

__John shifted himself closer to Sherlock, twisting his legs between and around the other man’s. He brought his hand up to his face and muttered, “Here’s the not so sexy part,” before spitting into his palm._ _

__Sherlock chuckled, and the sound reverberated into John. He followed John’s lead and began rubbing John with his saliva-slicked hand, as John did to him. Sherlock gave a little twist to his stroking that left John moaning his name._ _

__“You sure it’s been ten years?” John panted._ _

__“Eight years, ten months.”_ _

__“Christ.” John wriggled his other arm under Sherlock’s neck and pulled his head close. He kissed him hard and hungrily and rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s slit. This time, Sherlock groaned, and he did so straight into John’s mouth._ _

__Sherlock pushed into John’s hand and quickened his own. John matched him move for move. They pushed as close as they could, legs clenched around each other. Sherlock came first, pulsing against John’s palm and releasing a high moan down John’s throat before breaking away for breath. John kissed his forehead and smiled. Of course, Sherlock didn’t let his orgasm derail him for long. He was still twitching in John’s fingers when he resumed his work on John with more vigour. He began whispering—panting John’s name, over and over, until he finally said, “Oh god, John, I love you.”_ _

__John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder with his ejaculate-covered hand as he came with a gasp and a groan._ _

__They lay there quietly for several minutes, breathing heavily, gazing at each other and smiling._ _

__Sherlock broke the silence with, “We’re a bit of a mess.”_ _

__“Mm. What do you say, first shower together?”_ _

__“I could be persuaded,” Sherlock mused. It was still several minutes before they managed to get out of bed._ _


End file.
